The Red Tide Job
by Mendeia
Summary: Post-canon. A job goes bad and Eliot finds himself with a few minutes to contemplate his choices for the last time. But the Leverage team is a family now and forever, and there's no way he will be going down alone. Lots of introspection, somewhat less in the way of action. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

So, this is my last offering for the Leverage fandom for now. Will I come back? Of course! When? Uh…I dunno. Someday.

In the meantime, here is a three-chapter, more introspective story than Russian Roulette, though it is very much steeped in the same themes of found family, specifically between Eliot and Nate. I actually wrote this one first, but thought it fit better to be posted now.

Post-series canonical, so spoilers for the end of Leverage.

Thanks, everyone from the Leverage fandom who has been so fantastic and welcoming! See you around!

Enjoy!

* * *

Eliot woke to the feel of red waves lapping against his skin.

He wasn't in any sort of pain.

That was probably a bad sign.

Eliot closed his eyes – not that it helped in the murky darkness – and forced his brain to think.

 _Florida Keys._

 _Illegal dumping of chemicals. Exacerbating an already dangerous red tide._

 _Hardison's eco-rage._

 _Parker's plan._

 _Right._

Eliot opened his eyes as the last hour filtered back to him in bits and pieces. An off-shore platform. Distracting the hired thugs while Hardison swept up the digital evidence and Parker protected the physical copies. An explosion.

" _Eliot! We gotta go!"_

" _I'm right behind you! Grab Parker and get the hell out of here."_

" _We're not leaving you behind! That's not how the plan works!"_

" _I know that! But I gotta make a different exit. I'll meet you at the hotel."_

" _You sure, man?"_

" _I'm sure! Now go!"_

The sound of an outboard motor over the comms. Hardison and Parker not saying anything, not joking. But going. Getting out safely.

The platform beginning to fall.

" _Eliot!"_

" _I'm fine! Turn that boat around and I'll turn you inside out, Hardison!"_

" _Okay, okay! We're going!"_

The next bit was hazy – Eliot remembered something bouncing into his skull and the shriek of static in his ear as his comm was broken with the blow. Then more falling, more pain.

He started taking stock.

He could move one arm, but the rest of him was wedged and crushed under an unforgiving, dense weight. His left knee screamed with the familiar pain of dislocation. Something sharp was jabbing him in the gut, dangerously close to slipping under his ribcage and up into his heart.

The water was red.

Eliot heaved in a breath, only to begin coughing.

 _Red tide. Algal bloom. Hardison said something about it messing up the lungs if you breathe it._

 _Wonder what happens when you swallow half of it._

 _Probably nothing good._

With iron determination, Eliot stopped the heaving coughing between one wracking breath and the next, forcing himself to hold his breath and counting the heartbeats thrumming in his ears. He focused on the slimy, thick taste on his tongue from the contaminated water and held his breath until his vision swam. Until the seizing in his chest gave way.

He let the air out in a measured breath, noticing as he did so that the red waves had crept another inch closer to his chin.

 _The platform's going down._

He gave a shove and only managed to splash himself.

 _And it looks like I'm going with it._

 _Damn._

Eliot did not make his assessment lightly. He had been in countless situations more deadly, more overwhelming, had battled odds far more unlikely and walked away more-or-less intact. He was Eliot Spencer. He could march into an armed insurgent base and march back out again leaving only destruction and a completed mission in his wake. He could stand in a warehouse of twenty well-trained assassins and be the only living thing to emerge.

Give Eliot Spencer an opponent, a person to fight, and he would win every time.

But there were a few things Eliot could not defeat, could not fight, could not battle.

Gravity.

Time.

Loss.

Hatred.

Stupidity.

 _Hardison's dumb puppy-eyes._

 _Parker's incessant poking._

He snorted.

Eliot had lost the first battle when Nate Ford offered him a chance for revenge against Dubenich's little bomb plot. He had lost the next when he found out that working with a team for something good made the blood on his hands feel less thick, the death-screams in his memory less choking. Then he lost battle after battle against the Mastermind who knew every button to push, every trick and game to play, to tie Eliot's heart into the team.

"A little more than a team" as Hardison and Parker put it.

Eliot had lost that war so thoroughly that he was almost a casualty of it himself when Damien Moreau entered the field. Eliot didn't fear Moreau for himself, didn't consider his life own to be in danger. But the team – this team who was _his_ and he was _theirs_ and he would annihilate anything that threatened that – Moreau almost ended it for him. Not with a bullet. With truth.

Any other team should have dumped him on the spot. Should have demanded a full accounting of the horrors in his past. Should have called him out for the traitor he was, should have cast him out for the secret he had kept from them.

They didn't.

Sophie stood up for him.

Hardison forgave him.

Parker accepted him.

And Nate turned his evil to their advantage.

After that, there was no more battle. There was no more war. There was no more struggle to keep Eliot Spencer, heart and soul, separate from the team that was Nate and Sophie and Hardison and Parker. There was no fight to extract himself intact.

There was only surrender. Complete and total surrender to the inevitable.

To the indomitable will of Nate Ford and his calculating brain and his perceptive heart. To the strangest family Eliot had ever known and the only one he had ever wanted in his lonely life of blood and death.

And even when Nate and Sophie went their own way, when five became three, Eliot could only hold them tighter. His world, his _life_ , was Hardison and Parker and their stupid movies and their terrible cooking and their hilariously pitiful attempts to prank him and their bizarre ability to find people in need every fifteen feet and their strange kindness. Eliot would have turned himself inside-out, would have cut off any organ on request, just to protect those cozy nights with Parker and Hardison on the couch giggling at space movies and while he pretended he didn't care even when he somehow ended up in the middle of their pile.

Eliot Spencer, who had trained himself to sleep for less than two hours of every day, lulled into the safest rest of his life with Hardison crushing an arm and Parker sprawled across his legs.

Eliot knew he was nothing but a sacrifice. He could have been a Mastermind in his own right, but he never wanted or needed the crown. He was a soldier, a champion, a protector. He was the shield that held back death and destruction at even the cost of itself. The only worth in his blood was that he could spill it and spare another's from being spilled. The only worth of his hands was the damage he could inflict to protect those in his wake.

Even now, more than ever, that was all Eliot ever wanted.

Parker and Hardison dreamed up ridiculous schemes, some crazier than Nate's on a bad day, and fought on behalf of those who could not fight for themselves. Nate's little black book of evil-doers had opened doors none of them could have anticipated, had sent what remained of Leverage Incorporated into darkness even Eliot had never seen before. But they marched against it, Thief, Hacker, Hitter, determined to leave corruption in shambles and the innocent spared and uplifted. A hundred jobs, a thousand, and the well of darkness had yet to run dry, but neither had they given up.

And Eliot put his flesh and blood on the line every time, took the pain, and Parker and Hardison were spared.

The red water was swirling around his neck.

Eliot gave another shove with as much strength as he could manage, but the collapsed structure didn't so much as shift.

 _Apparently I'm the one without any leverage this time. Damn._

Eliot closed the hand he could move into a fist.

He didn't mind dying. He had understood that death was a real possibility from the moment he signed his name on the enlistment forms many endless years before.

Of course, he hadn't _truly_ understood it until he found himself in the middle of a firefight, watching his unit go down around him. That was the day he really met Death and learned its song.

But he had accepted the reality of death, and its likelihood. He had fought against it, fought to avoid it, fought to prevent it. Then he learned to deal it, to become Death's own hand, its scythe slashing through flesh and bone and delivering souls to oblivion.

He fell into Death, and with it, darkness. The boy who had once stood with God in his heart bowed his head to a new eternal power, a relentless truth, an Unholy Ghost. And legions feared his very name.

And then the world pivoted under him once again, and Eliot ceased his time as Death's right hand and sought it himself. Instead of the killer of nations, he wandered meaninglessly, aimlessly, putting his skills to work for those with money as long as he took no more lives in the doing. It was not so much penance as taking his turn in the ring, setting himself up to face an opponent who would mete out the death he had brought to others – low and honorless and senseless.

Eliot himself could not have said if a true death wish hung in his heart, but one was ever-present on his mind. If _this_ job, _this_ retrieval, _this_ contract would be the one to walk him into the hands of his own murderer. Or, perhaps but not likely, the hands of the law which could never hope to punish him enough, but might make the attempt until someone else finished the job.

He could have made it easier on himself, of course. There were whole countries eager to find him, stake him out in their media and their prisons, take their pound of flesh for his actions. He needed only walk into one and let the wheels of delayed vengeance do the rest.

Even Eliot still didn't know why he hadn't.

And then enter Nate and Hardison and Parker and Sophie. Leverage and Dubenich and offices and meetings and little guys and scams and that niggling sense of 'doing good' that felt so alien inside his bloodied soul.

A soul that felt a little less bloodied every time he dared to glance at it, every time he listened to a sound from inside other than the hate that drove him, hate for all he had done and all he had become.

Until he realized that these people didn't hate him. Didn't see the blood.

They saw his hands as their guardians, his strength as their wall.

And Eliot Spencer made an enemy of Death once more. Not for his own sake, never again for his own sake, but for theirs. For them, for those who were his team and friends and family and everything and still more.

' _Til my dying day._

Yes. He would buy their lives with his own and consider it a more than generous trade. No matter what it cost him, he would watch over them until there was no breath in his lungs.

Eliot figured he had about ten minutes before that moment came.

Probably there should have been fear. Maybe rage. Disappointment.

Isn't that what normal people felt as they died?

But Eliot closed his eyes and felt only sorrow and guilt and regret.

Not that he was going to die.

But for those he would no longer be able to protect.

 _There won't be someone to check Parker's plans and make sure there's an exit that doesn't involve leaping off a twenty-story building._

 _There won't be someone to buy time for Hardison to finish whatever he's doing when it inevitably takes longer than he expects._

 _There won't be someone to watch their backs in a crowd. Someone to spot the snipers and disable the bombs. Someone to keep them from seeing the worst. Someone to keep hands as bloody as mine away from their throats._

 _Dammit!_

 _Who's going to make sure they don't give themselves food poisoning with their ridiculous, impossible cooking?_

 _Who's going to triple-check all the gear?_

 _Who's going to patch them up when they get hurt?_

 _Who's going to hold them up when the weight of the world comes down?_

Eliot hadn't really prayed to God in more years than he wanted to think about. And even now, he couldn't lift his head up to try.

God didn't listen to people like him. He barely listened to the ones who deserved it.

So Eliot prayed to the only powers greater than himself he had ever known or truly believed.

 _Nate. Wherever you are...I'm sorry. I failed. They're safe, but they're alone. You'll have to help them. You'll have to find them another Hitter. Someone strong enough to protect them and smart enough to know what that really means. Lay another trap, Nate. Find another me, a better me. Find someone who can shield them with clean hands. Find someone to be what this family needs and deserves. Find them and catch them and bind them just as you bound me._

 _And tell them I'm sorry._

 _Sophie –_ he knew her real name, of course he did, but she'd been Sophie for so long even after he learned it and his brain still thought of her that way, and he was pretty sure Hardison's did, too, even if Parker had had a harder time switching back to Sophie after Nate got out of prison than getting it right in the first place – and he was getting distracted by the past and not the time he had left _. Sophie. Take care of Nate. He knows, I hope he knows, what he gave me. Because I gave it to him, too. You've always been there to love him. He's already lost so much. Help him – he has to bury another son. He kept me from falling all the way down. Don't you let him fall after me. And...thank you. I'm sorry for every minute I didn't trust you._

 _And tell them I'm sorry._

 _Hardison. Don't let Parker think this is her fault. It isn't. She's already lost so much, too. Hold onto her. She's going to feel things. Help her be angry with me, if it helps. Teach her to hate me for making her feel this way if it means she'll survive it. And let her be what she is. And watch your damn back. Stay alive until you find someone else to guard it. I'll kill you myself if you let yourself get hurt._

 _I'm so sorry._

 _Parker. Thank you for understanding me. Understand me now and take care of Hardison. He doesn't know how to do this. He doesn't know how to keep himself whole. You're the only one who can face darkness and not let it touch you. You have to keep it off him. You have to keep him from having to know. Never let him grow up or grow cold. You're the only one who can._

 _I'm so sorry._

The water reached Eliot's mouth. He tipped his head up as far as whatever was above him would allow.

 _Thank you._

 _Thank you for giving me reason to live._

 _Please keep living._

He closed his eyes.

 _I love you all. More than I could ever say._

 _I wish I'd told you._

 _I hope you always knew._

Something fell and the water swamped his face. The algae burned against his tightly-shut eyes. Eliot held his breath, even though it was hopeless.

But hopeless or not, even Death couldn't rob this last moment from him. This last moment that belonged not to Eliot Spencer – Hitter, retrieval specialist, assassin, soldier.

That belonged to what he had become.

To Eliot Spencer – avenging angel, guardian, best friend, brother, son.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough.

Eliot would have fought Death itself to get back to the people who made his life worth living, who regrew him a soul from the tattered remains of humanity they had nurtured and loved. Pinned, drowning, Eliot would have put all his power and all his might and all his fury into an unwinnable battle, just for the chance to live one more day where he belonged.

With them, beside them, protecting them.

Death never gave him a chance.


	2. Chapter 2

So, for those who were happy with chapter 1 being stand-alone, feel free to pretend this one doesn't exist! For those who pled for chapter 1 NOT to be the end, read on!

Also, my knowledge of scuba diving is entirely theoretical, largely based on watching nature shows and reading Wikipedia. So…for anything I got wrong, I apologize in advance.

Finally – thank you everyone for your kind words. Apparently that first chapter was something that really worked for a lot of you!

Enjoy!

* * *

" _He's not answering! Eliot! Say something! The damn thing's sinking!"_

" _What if he can't hear you?"_

" _He's gotta hear me! Eliot!"_

" _What if he's…?"_

" _This can't be happening…"_

Nate hit the water and started to swim.

 _Thank God Sophie wanted to surprise them. Thank God she wanted me to teach her scuba diving and she bought practically the entire store. Thank God Hardison sent me the frequency for the new comms so we could monitor them any time we were in the neighborhood._

 _Lara_ , his brain said quietly.

 _No. She's here, with the team. We're all together. And when we're here, she's Sophie._

 _Never mind._

 _Hang on, Eliot. I'm coming._

 _You did your job. You always do your job. You kept them safe. And Sophie won't let them try to come after you. We both know how that would end. Hardison swims like a squirrel. Parker can swim well, and maybe she'd even have a better chance of getting in there to find you, but there's no telling if she could get you out again. And neither of them have tanks or gear in that little boat._

 _Maybe I'll be giving a scuba lesson for three._

 _But only if you're there to tell me everything I'm doing wrong._

Nate reached the off-shore platform which was rapidly succumbing to the changing tide and the black-red waves. He attached his guide-line to a piece of the structure that seemed less likely to tip over any moment and dropped the surface marker buoy just in case. Then he dove.

 _Some of it's flooded, some of it seems to have trapped air pockets. Dear God, let him be where he can still breathe. Eliot can survive anything, but he can't hold his breath forever._

 _Just give me until I can get there. I'll do the rest._

 _Please. Give me this much. Please don't take him away._

The off-shore platform wasn't as big as an oil rig, though its design was effectively the same. Nate had walked a few oil rigs in his time with IYS and knew their layouts. He started close to the control room where Hardison and Parker had been before the explosion. Then he moved inward, navigating stairwells which were some of them dry and some completely submerged.

As he went, he found other bodies, turning each one over with fear in his heart that this would be the one he knew and could not stand to lose. But they were strangers, and Nate left them behind.

Everywhere around him, metal was buckling as the fixed platform continued to crumple.

 _You're going to pay for this, you bastards. You sons of bitches. You 'invested' in a rinky-dink installation about as solid as aluminum foil. How many lives did you endanger just to save a buck while dumping chemicals into the ocean?_

 _Whatever Hardison's got planned, whatever Parker does to you – when they are finished, I will come after you a hundred times harder. People are dead, you bastards, and one of mine might be with them. When I am through with you, there won't be a man or woman alive who will dare whisper your names for fear I'll come for them, too._

 _You killed people. You endangered my team. You deserve everything I can think of to make you suffer._

 _And I'm just getting started._

But first he must save Eliot.

Eliot who was brave and selfless. Eliot who was afraid of nothing but the demons that lived so deep inside his heart even Nate had only ever seen a glimpse of them. Eliot who had killed to protect them, who would have killed or died to protect them all. Eliot who cooked for them and bandaged up their hurts and watched their backs. Eliot whose eyes had been dead until Nate gave him a job.

It had never been said between them, never spoken, never whispered. But they both knew. How could they not?

Nate Ford had lost a son once. By the grace of God, he had gained two more, and a daughter as well. And Eliot, who had lost a father to stubbornness and cold-heartedness, had gained more than just a father – he had gained a family.

Eliot, Hardison, Parker. The three children of Nate's heart and soul. Parker, taking the place of a youngest child, wild and yet strangely the most like him of them all. Hardison, middle-child, trouble-maker, boundaries-tester, and yet also quickest to make peace when the family got loud.

And Eliot. His second-in-command. His right hand. The one who spoke to him like an equal, but followed him as he would a general. The one who was first to question Nate, first to challenge him, not out of a sense of entitlement or rebellion, but because someone had to keep the Mastermind in check. Someone had to know when to drag Nate back to earth. Someone had to know him as well as he knew himself, and keep him safe from himself.

Nate was certain Sam would not have grown up to be at all like Eliot, but he would have been very, very proud if he had.

And he was not going to lose him. Not now. Not today. Not ever.

Nate Ford owed Eliot his life. Owed Eliot Sophie's life, Parker's life, Hardison's life – more times than he could remember. He owed Eliot for their safety and their success and their souls. What Eliot had done to keep them from harm was a debt he could never repay.

But he was determined to try. And that meant first bringing Eliot home.

Nate pulled out of the upper decks of the platform and dove for the stairs that led below. Through a damaged porthole, he spotted a flash of a flannel-clad arm bouncing in the shadows. He sped for the nearest door hanging open and waving with the red tide, and followed a buckled corridor to a chamber where the last air was bubbling away through a million cracks.

As Nate pushed into the room, he watched Eliot's head sink completely beneath the water.

Cold determination coiled in his gut.

Eliot had to be alive. _He had to be_.

Nate was bringing him out or he would die trying.

It took three-and-a-half excruciating minutes for Nate to work his way across the room. He could have moved more quickly, but he didn't dare disturb any of the debris or fallen supports – the slightest shift could collapse what was left of the structure and cut Eliot in half. By the time he reached where Eliot was trapped, he was counting seconds and sweating within the wetsuit.

Eliot's face was slack.

Nate ripped off his own nose clip and slammed it onto Eliot's nose, hoping for a reaction.

Nothing.

His fingers numb, Nate detached his pony tank and pushed the regulator into Eliot's mouth.

 _Breathe. Please breathe._

Still nothing.

Nate nearly screamed.

 _Damn you! You're not allowed to die like this, Eliot Spencer! You're not allowed to give up now!_

 _Fight, dammit!_

It couldn't happen again. He couldn't let it happen that he stood by while a life was snuffed out. Eliot had never looked as vulnerable as Sam, had never been so frail. But Eliot was Nate's son and brother and friend all in one and he was dying and Nate's soul _could not take it_.

Nate couldn't have said he was entirely sane, and certainly not calm, so he did the only thing he could think of.

He punched Eliot in the face.

 _You have to live. You have to come back with me. You can't leave us. I need you watching my back even when I'm halfway across the globe. I need to know you're there if the worst happens. I need to know Sophie will be protected if I ever let her down. I need you to be the only person in the world I know without a doubt would come for me, for Sophie, for Hardison and Parker, even if you had to walk into Hell to find us. And Hell would break against your will. I need that will, that courage. I need it, Eliot, for all of us. But mostly for myself._

 _Don't you remember Parker on comms when Hardison was buried alive? She cried, Eliot, and she's crying now. She knows you aren't indestructible, but she needs you to be. You can't leave her. Hardison loves her, but you understand her. Even better than me. Without that, something in her will break, maybe forever._

 _And Hardison. Hardison would take a bullet for you, if you'd let him. Hardison trusts you like he hasn't trusted another human being except his Nana, probably. He trusts you with his jokes and his teasing, but also his safety. And with Parker. Hardison can put everything he loves into your hands because he knows you'll die to protect that trust. You are his fixed point, more than I ever was._

 _You once told me your job was to have my back all the way down. And in return, I had to be the person you came back for._

 _Now I've come back. So I need you to be with me all the way down._

 _Live, dammit!_

Nate punched him again.

And a tiny column of bubbles rose from the scuba regulator.

Eliot was breathing.

Nate wanted to shout for joy, but there was no time. Instead, he turned his attention to the fallen platform that had pinned Eliot in place. An entire level of the off-shore platform had collapsed, trapping Eliot between the metal ceiling and floor of the room.

Dead or alive, Nate had been determined to get Eliot out.

Eliot would have done the same for him.

But Eliot _was_ alive, which meant everything, it truly did, but it also added its own difficulties, too. There was no way to tell if Eliot was hurt or how badly. His spine could be broken. He could already have had a leg snapped and ripped off by the impact. He could be bleeding out.

Freeing Eliot from what pinned him down could kill him.

But not freeing him would definitely kill him.

So Nate set about finding a way.

First, he anchored the pony tank to a protruding twist of metal, tucking it close to Eliot's body. Eliot was breathing, but he still didn't appear to be awake. It was a complicating factor, a variable Nate had to track. When he eventually found a way to shift the debris and free him, Eliot might drop the regulator and try breathing water. Nate would have to stay close by, close enough to make sure anything he did wouldn't endanger Eliot further.

Getting Eliot out of the wreck while unconscious was a whole other problem, but first Nate needed him out of the crushing grip of the collapse.

Nate tugged on his guide-line, giving himself some slack to move deeper into the room. The water was rising enough for him to swim over the collapsed metal sheeting on top of Eliot, but he didn't dare, not yet. He moved his flashlight up, checking beams and structures and damage. There had to be a way to move the heavy pile without bringing it all down on both their heads. He began whirling possibilities and outcomes through his Mastermind brain, searching for the combination that would save them.

Until suddenly Nate's brain reset.

 _Why was Eliot in here in the first place?_

Nate already knew Hardison and Parker had been up top, thus their easier escape into the boat. Eliot would never have moved too far from their position, not unless he couldn't help it. The only reason Eliot would have been trapped two levels down from Hardison and Parker was that there was a genuine risk down here.

 _A bomb? Not likely. It would have gone off when the tanks exploded._

 _The hired goons? Eliot would have held them off from a choke point._

Nate visualized the off-shore platform before it had sunk into the red waves. Considered where this area would have been before the explosion caused the whole rig to list sideways and sink. Considered the tactical situation the way Eliot must have.

 _Someone was waiting. Someone was down here with eyes on their escape route. Someone who could take a shot and they wouldn't see it coming._

 _Eliot came here to make sure no one would put a bullet in their backs._

 _Which means there should be a way out from here, too._

Nate stopped looking up and turned his flashlight to what was left of the floor. Before the collapse, this would have been the bottom level, situated just out of the reach of the tides. There must be a hatch, an exit, some way for the gunman Eliot feared to pose a threat to a little dinghy and an outboard motor.

 _The tanks had exploded. Eliot needed to get out, but he also needed to neutralize the threat._

 _And if he had any choice at all, he wouldn't have left whoever was down here to die._

Nate tipped his head sideways until his view was level with the room at its intended orientation.

 _There's nothing on the walls, so it has to be on the floor._

 _Right under where Eliot is pinned._

 _Of course it is._

Nate tied off his guide-line close to Eliot, then attached an offshoot line. He needed to get around and under, and if he took the time to wind all the way out of the platform, he might lose too much air. It was riskier, trying to get through a break in the floor, but it was faster.

Eliot needed him to be fast.

Nate didn't look back, couldn't look back. He kicked for a spot in the corner, nearest where the platform's leg that had buckled should have been attached. Sure enough, there was a gap ripped in the floor beneath which was nothing but ocean. Nate lowered himself carefully, watching every inch of his line and his equipment. If something went wrong, if he got stuck now, they would both die.

 _Not today. You don't get to take him today._

 _I'm bringing him home._

In the open water, Nate could move much more quickly. He darted under the structure, wincing at the bent support leg which looked like it might snap any moment. But he couldn't stop it from snapping and worrying about it would only waste time he did not have to spare.

He almost ran into the foot that dangled from an open hatch.

A foot held on by nothing but a last layer of skin and half a pair of denim pants.

But Nate knew almost as soon as he got his light on it that this was not Eliot's leg. The skin was wrong, the hair, even the musculature. This was the leg of someone who had tried to shoot Parker and Hardison as they fled – and yet Eliot had tried to save them when he should have been running for his life.

Nate followed the foot upwards, flashlight less bright in the dense red tide.

But it was enough to see a body halfway out an open hatch, long dead and drowned. Nate reached up, cringing and apologetic but not stopping for either, and felt into the hatch.

 _God bless you, you bastard. You tried to kill my team, but you died and that's going to save Eliot's life._

Nate wrapped his hands around the dead man's jacket and pulled.

He could feel bones giving way, already smashed from being jammed partway into a hole. The water was red and dark already, so Nate couldn't know how much blood was leaching everywhere, but he thought it must be a frightening quantity. The more of the gunman he yanked roughly downward, the more he realized how mangled the body was. Bones dislocated, spine severed, ribs shattered. A man reduced to nothing but soup inside his skin.

 _Please don't let this be Eliot, too._

The body popped free and Nate let it drift away. He reached up into the gap left behind and felt legs.

 _Eliot. I'm coming._

If he had no better choices, he could pull Eliot backwards through the hole, but he knew there would be no way to keep the pony tank in place. Even if it only took a matter of seconds, Nate didn't want to risk it. Didn't want Eliot to stop breathing. Even for a moment.

Nate followed his offshoot line back to the gap and wiggled through it as quickly as he dared. For a moment he couldn't see Eliot and fear caught him.

 _No. He can't die now. He wouldn't dare._

Nate dove to his guide-line and it led him to where he'd left Eliot.

Eliot had shifted when the body pinned beneath him was gone. But that tiny line of bubbles rose from the regulator again, and Nate couldn't tell if he was crying and he didn't care if he was.

That dead gunman's body had been just enough of a blockage that his absence created margin for Nate to be able to extract his Hitter.

 _Come on, Eliot. Let's go home._

Nate reached into the now-widened crevice and gently worked him loose, tugging slowly and carefully in case anything was still trapped. He could feel the twist in Eliot's knee and winced with sympathy. The Hitter would be laid up for a while on that, unable to walk and probably yelling at everybody just to hide his frustration and fear.

An Eliot who was down, who couldn't fight, was an Eliot who felt helpless, an Eliot who feared he couldn't protect.

 _But you have always protected us. Even when you were miles away. You protect us because we know you'll come for us if you have to do it on one leg or none at all. You protect us and you watch out for us._

 _And this will be my turn to watch over you. I promise. Just keep breathing._

At last Nate pulled Eliot free, though he was no more conscious than before. He hung in the water, arms and legs limp, hair floating. If not for the bubbles and the fact that the gauge on the pony tank showed use, Eliot would have seemed dead. Dead and gone and beyond where they could find him or bring him home.

 _Not today, Eliot Spencer. Not today._

Nate tightened his tie-off of the guide-line and dropped the reel. He was going to have his hands full getting Eliot out, and he didn't care if the line went down when the platform finished sinking. He just needed to get Eliot to the surface.

Nate checked that the pony tank's regulator was still tight in Eliot's mouth, then pulled Eliot's shirt open. With a silent apology, he shoved the tank down the collar of Eliot's shirt to hold it. It wasn't the most elegant solution, and it could easily bounce against what would certainly be wicked bruising and maybe broken ribs, but he needed the tank not to shift too much or float away.

Then, counter to every rule of cave or wreck diving, Nate turned around, grabbed Eliot under the arms, and began swimming backwards along the guide-line. He knew there were dozens of things that could catch him, corners of metal that could snag on his gear, even damaging his hose lines or his tank.

But this was faster, and Eliot still needed him to be fast.

He flinched when a sharp slice of metal burned into his shoulder, glancing off his bicep and tearing the wetsuit. He glanced back just long enough to ensure he wouldn't get caught on whatever it was and gave another strong kick.

 _My turn to shed blood for you, Eliot. Don't you dare make it not count._

Two tight spots later, Nate dragged Eliot out the last door and into the open ocean where he disconnected from the guide-line entirely. The dive computer on his wrist showed the need for a single decompression stop about halfway to the surface, which gave him the chance to pause and adjust Eliot's regulator. The tiny stream of bubbles continued, but nothing else had changed.

 _You have to wake up, Eliot. I don't care if it's now or at the surface or tomorrow. But you have to wake up. You are not allowed to die today._

He glanced back at the platform which looked like a crumpled child's toy left in a bathtub, slowly being overtaken by the tide and slipping towards the bottom.

 _I'll make them sorry they did this to you. To you and everyone in there. You just keep breathing. And live. You have to live, Eliot. For all of us. For me._

 _Don't make me bury another son._

The dive computer signaled it was safe to ascend again and Nate swam towards the sunlight.


	3. Chapter 3

Well, here ends The Red Tide Job, and my Leverage offerings for now. I have enjoyed every minute of sharing these stories with all of you, and I hope to run into you again either in new fandoms or when I inevitably return to our Leverage team!

Until then, thank you all for your constant kindness, support, and enthusiasm. You are amazing readers and I feel very privileged to have been able to share stories with you.

May you all find a hundred stories that fill you with joy, just as you've given me joy every week for most of this year.

And, as always – enjoy!

* * *

Eliot's awareness came back not slowly, but all at once, without him so much as moving a muscle. It was a skill he had taught himself long, long ago. He could transition from sleep to full consciousness without flickering so much as an eyelid, instantly able to assess his situation without even his heart-rate or breathing giving him away.

Voices swirled around him.

"Guys, did you even _read_ what-all was in that water? You should _both_ be gettin' checked at the hospital – stat!"

Hardison. Annoyed, worried, and with a trace of panic. So, nothing out of the ordinary.

"I didn't breathe it or swallow it. Trust me."

"Nate…"

"I mean it. I'm fine. Worry about Eliot"

"I _am_ worried about Eliot!"

Nate and Sophie. Well, that was unexpected. But Nate sounded calm and in control, and Sophie was worried, but not hysterical. If anything, she sounded annoyed at Nate.

So, other than them being here, also nothing out of the ordinary.

"It's in his blood, too. Does this mean he'll get superpowers?"

Parker. Parker never changed.

"What the hell kind of superpowers would he get from contaminated algae?" Hardison asked.

"I dunno. Maybe neat fish powers like that Aguaguy."

"Aqua _man_ , Parker. Aqua _man_. And no, I'm thinking that's not very likely."

"Too bad. Eliot would be great with fish powers. He could summon sharks to eat people!"

Well, this was rapidly getting out of hand. But before he moved, Eliot did a quick check of his own status.

He was somewhere dry and warm, but not overly comfortable, and there was the pressure of a cushion to one side. That meant he was bundled up on a couch, probably in the hotel suite they'd rented for the purpose of this particular con. His left knee had been wrapped and elevated, but not yet un-dislocated. Eliot concentrated on the pain signals from that area. He knew what torn ligaments felt like, and he knew what kind of damage required surgery to fix and what didn't.

Probably, if he got his knee back into place and no bones were broken, and as long as he kept it bound, iced, and immobilized, and if he used that one stretching technique he'd picked up abroad, he could avoid having to go under the knife again.

Being a quick healer, and being hard to damage in the first place, had served Eliot well his whole life. This was just one more time he was grateful for it.

Continuing his self-assessment, he identified a shallow cut along his abdomen, and a hell of a lot of bruising across his chest and back – getting half-crushed by a cheap oil rig would do that to a person. His ribs ached, but his chest had already been bound fairly well, and he didn't sense any bleeding.

Being able to tell when he was bleeding internally had also saved his life more than once.

But his lungs burned in a way that had nothing to do with bruised or broken ribs, and his tongue tasted foul. That must be some combination of the chemicals and the algae. Well, if it was poisonous, he'd be dead by now, or throwing up, or running a fever, or something. None of that was true, so he figured whatever was in it wasn't enough to bring him down.

It was a gamble, of course it was. But everything was a gamble.

The sensible thing would be to get checked out at a hospital, of course. Even if he didn't need surgery on his knee, even if the algae and chemicals weren't a threat. A lot of things could have happened that he couldn't feel, and there was always the chance he was wrong. A lifetime of injuries, wounds, battles, and having to recover sometimes alone, sometimes in enemy territory, sometimes with nothing more than a knife and a pile of sticks to help him, had taught him many of his body's limits and tricks – but there were always more. A proper doctor, or a hospital, might be able to save him a lot of pain.

But that would also mean being separated from his team.

Eliot hadn't survived a collapsing, watery death trap just to leave them unprotected all over again.

"Tell you what," Nate said from somewhere to Eliot's left. "I know a former ER doctor who retired down here. Why don't you three go see if you can track him down and talk him into a house call for Eliot?"

"A house call?" Eliot could practically hear Hardison glaring. "He almost died in a tin can sinking into a pool of sewage! He needs proper medical care."

"Hardison's right," Sophie said.

There was quiet for a moment, and Eliot knew everyone was looking at Parker and Nate, at the original Mastermind and the new Mastermind exchanging thoughts. Before Eliot could decide if he wanted to open his eyes to interpret what they might be thinking to one another, Parker spoke up.

"No. I agree with Nate. We'll go find his doctor friend."

Hardison spluttered. "We will?"

"Yeah. Come on. You too."

"What? Why me?" Sophie asked.

"Because you're here, which means I don't have to grift for once."

"Hardison, you start tracking him down. His name's Darrin Kreel. Just give us a minute. Okay?"

Hardison was grumbling under his breath, but a lighter pair of footsteps drew him away to the door which shut behind them.

"Nate…"

"I know, but...look. How many times have you ever seen Eliot go to a doctor? No matter how hurt he was? After that thing in DC he didn't even go, and he'd been shot. Twice."

"I know he can be stubborn, but…"

"It's not that." Nate's voice went low and Eliot knew the pair of them were inches apart, right over his head. He hoped they didn't forget he was here. Otherwise, he'd have to remind them that there were rules about public displays of affection and proximity to a wounded Hitter who was running out of patience.

"Then what is it?"

"It's his choice. It has to be. And Eliot trusts us. We can't break that trust by making a decision for him that we know he wouldn't want."

"Even if it costs him his life?"

"Especially then. That's what Eliot _does_."

Sophie let out a sharp, distressed breath. Then she sighed. "All right. But if he dies, I'm never speaking to you again, Nate."

"He won't die. He can't."

"What makes you so sure?"

"We still need him."

Eliot felt warmth pool inside and was glad nobody knew he was awake so he could enjoy it in peace.

"All right. I'll go help Parker and Hardison. Just...take care of him."

"I will. I promise."

Eliot listened to the sound of heels on carpet long after Sophie had left the room and shut the door behind her.

Eliot could hear Nate moving, then sitting in a chair that made a very distinctive creaking sound as he settled his weight into it. He considered just falling back into sleep.

"I know you're awake, Eliot."

Or not.

"You can fool the others, but you can't fool me. I know you too well."

Eliot cracked open his eyes, blinking in the late afternoon sunlight that streamed through gauzy curtains.

"What gave me away?" he asked, and his voice was only slightly more rough than usual.

"Oh, nothing." Nate sat perched in a chair across from the couch, his boyish, triumphant smile wide on his face. "But I just knew."

"Figures." Of _course_ the Mastermind who had ripped through Eliot's every defense, torn up his life, redefined his sense of self, _made him a damn family_ – of _course_ Nate would see through a trick that had fooled government agents, hired thugs, terrorists, and ex-girlfriends.

"How're you feeling?"

Eliot tipped his head so he could see Nate more clearly. "Fine."

"Just to be sure, _do_ you want to go to a hospital? I can sneak you out past the others if you want."

"No."

Nate's smile went smug. "Of course you don't."

Eliot let out a short breath, then made a quick decision. "But I do need your help."

Nate was surprised by that, which made Eliot feel smug in return. It wasn't often he caught Nate unprepared.

"Oh?"

"Yeah." Eliot pushed himself to a sitting position, ignoring the angry buzzing of his entire chest. "Help me set my knee."

Nate, to his credit, didn't stare at Eliot with an open mouth like a fish the way Hardison would have, nor did concern flood into his eyes like Sophie, nor did he jump too eagerly to yank on his injured leg as Parker would. He simply nodded and rose.

"Tell me what to do."

Eliot unwound the bindings on his knee that looked like they came from an EMT's kit. He felt around the injury, ignoring the white-hot pain even the slightest touch sparked. Pain was an old friend, and it had about as much say over how Eliot lived his life as anything else did. When he figured out exactly how the knee was out of its joint, he gestured to his shin just above the ankle.

"Grab there."

Nate put his hands where Eliot pointed, wrapping them tightly around the thick muscle and bone.

"Lean all your weight on it and don't let go."

Eliot waited until Nate was settled. Then he gripped the couch, braced his other foot on the floor, and yanked himself backwards, twisting his leg with all his might.

The knee settled into place with an ugly snapping sound.

Eliot opted to ignore the sweat that suddenly beaded at his temples from the screaming agony that beat at his control with knives and fire. He could only barely choke out words, and it almost cost him consciousness to make them sound as normal as possible.

"Now wrap it and put as much ice on it as you can find."

And Nate earned Eliot's eternal gratitude by doing just that without a single word of commentary.

After Nate was back in his chair and Eliot could feign breathing normally, he looked over and managed a tiny smirk.

"Didn't expect to see you."

"I bet you didn't," Nate said. And there was concern in his eyes, but he didn't let too much of it leak onto his face.

"You got me out, didn't you?"

Nate nodded. "How'd you know?"

"Besides what Hardison said about you being in that water with me?" Eliot raised an eyebrow. "You've got a red mark from a scuba regulator on your face. It's a very distinctive mark. And they don't dive. Hardison swims like a squirrel."

Nate smiled. "He really does."

There was a time Eliot would have looked away, said something gruff, disengaged. But that was before. That was when he was more death and blood than man and heart.

"Thank you." And he looked straight into Nate's eyes as he said it. "Thank you for coming for me."

And Nate looked straight back, all the jokiness gone. "Always, Eliot. Always."

There was something that lived between Nate and Eliot, something they both knew was there but had never acknowledged. A connection so tight it surpassed definition.

It wasn't the silence of two Masterminds spinning through plans and people and facts and guesses the way Nate and Parker could come up with the same answer through entirely different means. It wasn't the long looks of trust that let Nate and Sophie communicate from across a room. And it wasn't the constant push-pull of Hardison and Nate fighting over a plan even when they agreed on it entirely.

This had always been different. Only theirs. A language of understanding and intention and innate loyalty.

It was Nate's invisible signals, the barest quirk of an eyebrow, the slightest shift of a jaw, that told Eliot when to make a move and when to hold still.

It was the way Eliot knew when Nate would be looking his direction before beginning to play a part, knew when to stand a step in front like a bodyguard and when to stand a step behind in support.

It was the quiet way Nate could say Eliot's name. Just, "Eliot." And Eliot knew Nate was asking Eliot to stop, to be a soldier and not a mercenary, to accept Nate's control and command.

It was Eliot's measured look, eyes level, the tiniest of nods, that told Nate that his Hitter was on board, or that a situation was under control, or that whatever it was, Eliot was ready to go all the way down and back if that's what it took.

It was Nate settling beside Eliot at the bar, not saying a word, and knowing that Eliot would accept his gratitude and his admiration no other way than shared silence.

It was Eliot turning away so Nate could pretend for the other three without that knowing stare peeling him and his truth to the raw surface.

And it was the fact that both of them could trust the other three in each others' hands – and no one else's. Because Nate and Eliot both knew, knew to their bones, knew to their souls, that there would be blood on the ground before either of them would let the rest of their team be hurt. What Eliot did with his body and his courage, Nate did with his mind and his determination.

To them fell the protection of the team. The safety of the family.

They fought their battles differently, but they fought them just the same.

Though Eliot could Mastermind, and Nate could be a Hitter. But they belonged where they were, with the other guy at their back.

Any other time, they might have left it at that. Any other day, any other close call, and they might have lapsed into silence, Nate thinking, Eliot resting, and shared not another word. They'd already said everything that needed saying, after all.

But today, Eliot had been in that water and he had prayed.

And Nate had been in that water also, and had also prayed.

So Eliot let down just one protective wall inside his chest and said, "Thought I was gonna die. And you know what?"

Nate met him with equal sincerity. "What?"

"I realized that the only regret I'd carry was that I was leaving them. Leaving you. With no one to watch your backs."

Nate nodded. "If it happened, I'd find someone. I wouldn't leave them vulnerable."

The relief of hearing Nate say it was enough to made Eliot dizzy. To know that they would have someone to watch over them even if he was gone. To know that there would be another to bleed and break in their place. The team would be safe. Eliot had lived, but he could die just as easily tomorrow.

But now he would do it with that certainty's peace.

"Thank you for that."

And Nate's heart thumped with what he'd almost lost. Trust, unshakeable, unending. Loyalty without limits.

Nate swallowed. "But I won't let it happen, Eliot. No matter what."

Eliot chuckled. "You gonna follow us around? Fish me out of trouble every time?"

But Nate was utterly serious when he said, "If I have to."

One of Eliot's eyebrows rose. "Not much of a retirement, then. Or is the great Nate Ford finally bored without the game and the chase?"

Nate couldn't help the half smile that crawled up one side of his mouth. "Surprised?"

"No. Pissed." Eliot raised one shoulder in a shrug. "I thought you'd go another year."

"Ah." Nate let the smile widen. "Who won the pool, then?"

"Who do you _think_?"

Nate nodded, understanding and not terribly surprised – Parker was downright dangerous in a betting pool, after all. Then he fixed his gaze back on his Hitter. _His_ Hitter, no matter who else Eliot ever protected or fought for or what Mastermind he followed. Eliot was Nate's. Like they were all Nate's. And would be until his bones rotted to nothing.

Eliot may have found his peace, or all the peace he ever wanted to admit to needing, but Nate was not done.

"Eliot. When you were in that water…"

"Don't."

Eliot pulled himself against the couch, sitting up a bit more. He shook his head and made his still-damp hair swish against his shoulders.

Nate waited.

"I'll make you a deal."

"Oh?"

"If you can pretend that you didn't stop being Nate Ford for a few minutes there, I'll pretend I didn't stop being nothing but a Hitter."

Nate could read the vulnerability in Eliot's eyes and his throat felt too thick to even consider speaking – he could scarcely breathe.

But Eliot's courage did not fail him.

"'Cause if I don't, if I have to tell you my other regret and everything that comes with it, neither one of us will ever be able to forget it. And how are you gonna send me to break my hands on people's heads if you know what I'm not gonna say?"

Eliot made a not-nice smile.

"So let's pretend you don't know. And I don't know. And you be Nate Ford and I'll be Eliot Spencer and we'll keep being us. Deal?"

Nate forced himself to answer.

"And what if I didn't want to be that Nate Ford anymore? What if I wanted to be a better one?"

Eliot went still.

Nate rose from his seat and crossed the floor between them.

"What if I could be Nate Ford and you could be Eliot Spencer and we didn't _have_ to forget the rest of it?"

"Not forget," Eliot corrected him at once. "Just pretend to forget."

Nate gave a wan smile. "When have you ever known me to willingly forget something about you? About any of you?"

Eliot almost shot back a comment about Nate's drinking, but he caught the look in the Mastermind's eyes and stopped it behind his teeth.

He remembered what he had thought – had prayed. _He has to bury another son. He kept me from falling all the way down._

Nate had always been the more broken of the two of them, his walls and protections and the layers around his emotions cracked and crumbling and solid as a sieve. The torn places in his heart and soul were visible to even an untrained eye when he wasn't in the middle of a con, and sometimes when he was.

Nate was better now – Eliot could see that much in his eyes. A life with Sophie, love and redemption and freedom from guilt, these things had healed some of the wounds in his spirit.

But some things could never be enough.

"Nate…"

Nate reached down and put a hand on Eliot's shoulder. It was a gesture he had repeated countless times over the years they were a part of the team. It had signalled anything from 'be patient' to 'stand down' to 'thank you.'

Today, Eliot could only read fear, and grief, and love in it.

And he couldn't let Nate feel it alone.

Eliot closed his eyes and knew he was leaning into that touch and there was nothing in the world that could stop him from doing it.

"Yeah. That."

Nate gripped Eliot's shoulder much harder than he probably should, given the bruising and the ribs and the breathing problems and everything else, but he would rather cut his hand off than let go. Eliot was alive. Nate could sense the strong heart pulsing under his fingers, could feel the rise and fall of the powerful chest, and it meant more than he could ever explain.

Nate felt his voice cracking before he even started speaking.

"I hope you know...I hope you've always known. I don't...I'm not good at…"

And, once again, as always, Eliot saved him.

Eliot opened his eyes and looked into Nate's and his gaze was steady.

"Damn right you're not good at it." And he cracked the tiny, warm smile that was only for the team. Only from his heart. "Yeah. I know."

"Good." Nate tightened his grip even more. "So do I."


End file.
